


Five Times

by Lieutenant_Romanoff



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pain, Reichenbach Feels, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:59:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lieutenant_Romanoff/pseuds/Lieutenant_Romanoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fives times John Watson visited the grave of Sherlock Holmes</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times

**Author's Note:**

> I still have Reichenbach feels. I'm so sorry

Five times John Watson visited the grave of Sherlock Holmes. That was all he could bring himself to do. Standing by the polished headstone made his heart ache and his eyes sting and threaten to spill tears down his cheeks. Five times was all he could possibly manage, though he would feel immensely guilty when he got halfway to the cemetery before asking the taxi driver to turn around. The sight of the grave was enough to make him want to curl up in a ball and cry, but he got through it because he knew it was right and he couldn't bring himself to abandon the grave completely. But it was still just five times.

The first time was at the funeral. He was surrounded by people and he couldn't help but feel angry at the fact that half the people there had probably barely spoken to the man. Did any of them know what Sherlock's favourite food was, that he knew next to nothing about practical things like the solar system, that he would play the violin when he was worried, that he could be the most gentle, kind human being when he shut his mouth and just sat and listened? Probably not. But not many people knew that aside from John. 

What made him even more angry though was the fact that Sherlock's parents, his own flesh and blood, did not show. He clenched his fists as the last of the people trickled in and no-one amongst the crowd pointed themselves out as being a member of the Holmes family. Admittedly John had not expected Mycroft to say anything at the funeral but he had hoped beyond hope that he would have the decency to turn up, if only for the main service. However, his hopes had been in vain, and despite his anger he couldn't help but feel as though it were inevitable. It seemed as though no-one in Sherlock's family seemed to care whether he was dead or alive.

Plenty of other people turned up though, Molly, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson amongst them. They all looked completely broken, Mrs Hudson weeping constantly throughout the service, Lestrade having to wipe his eyes at points. Molly gazed blankly around the church, barely responding when people tried to speak with her. John supposed she was still in shock, still barely believing that the great Sherlock Holmes really was gone. He could relate. Sometimes he would wake up and half expect to see Sherlock dashing in, complaining that he'd been alone for hours and insisting that John get dressed at once so they could go to a crime scene. But reality always set in, and John always found himself alone.

He didn't pay much attention to the service, he just stared at the coffin at the front of the church and allowed himself to become lost in thought. Mrs Hudson nudged him, her eyes red with tears, as the rest of the service walked outside where Sherlock would be lowered into the ground.

Standing around the gaping hole in the ground as the coffin was lowered into it was harder than he had expected. After all, that wasn't really Sherlock, it was just his body. His shell. What made Sherlock the wonderful person John loved was his razor sharp wit, his mind palace, his stubbornness. All gone. All that remained in the wooden coffin in front of him was a body. A meaningless, empty body. So it came as a surprise to John when he found himself struggling to hold back tears as the coffin disappeared into the ground in front of him. Perhaps it was because there was some sense of finality to it. Above the ground he could still see Sherlock's face, he could pretend he was sleeping and would jump up at any moment, complaining that he’d wasted half the day. Below the ground he would never see that face again. His illusion was shattered and reality was inescapable. And that hurt more than he could ever have anticipated.

The crowds of people dissipated off once the coffin had been lowered completely, probably to go to the wake and try to shake off the sad atmosphere that clouded over them during the service. But not John. He remained there, staring into the grave for a few more minutes. Leaving would mean saying goodbye, and he wasn't quite ready for that. After a while though, he realised his presence would be missed at the wake and that he was doing no good being a statue by Sherlock's grave. He took a deep breath, clenched his fists, and turned his back. 

The second time he visited the grave was only a few weeks later. He and Mrs Hudson were going up to look at the newly engraved gravestone and to lay some flowers atop the grave. John had let out a dry laugh when Mrs Hudson had told him that. Sherlock didn't like flowers, he pointed out. Mrs Hudson had rolled her eyes at that, telling him that of course she knew that but it was tradition. John didn't think Sherlock would much appreciate tradition. 

Standing at the grave was painful, and it wasn't helped by Mrs Hudson wittering on about all the things Sherlock used to do that annoyed her. Eventually he could take it no longer and he, rather politely he thought, told her that he wasn't in fact that angry at the man. Fortunately she seemed to understand and after one more look at the grave, she turned and left John alone. Despite his solitariness he remained silent for a while longer, calculating the words he wanted to say in his head. His mouth felt dry and any words he thought of saying seemed wrong. He knew what you normally said at a grave but Sherlock Holmes was no normal man and saying something so ordinary felt almost insulting. Eventually, he thought of something he would like to say.

"You told me once that you weren’t a hero." He began, "There were times I didn’t even think you were human, but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and the most human… human being I’ve ever known, and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, that’s… uh. There." He finished awkwardly, unsure of the strangely sentimental words coming from his lips. 

"I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He continued, voice shaking as he struggled desperately to compose himself. He took a deep breath and went to turn around before changing his mind. There was one more thing, one more thing he had to say. It was crazy but he needed to get the words out. He needed Sherlock to know that he needed him. 

"Look, please, there’s just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t. Be. Dead." His voice cracked a little at the last word, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. He took a minute to compose himself before going on. "Would you do that, just for me, just… stop it. Stop this!" 

John began to sob, and he covered his face with his trembling hands. It took a few moments for him to compose himself, the tears refusing to halt. When they had stopped flowing for long enough for him to move, he straightened himself out, looked out into the distance, and gave a salute. Then he turned his back on his friend, and retraced the path that Mrs Hudson had taken before him.

The third time he visited, he was angry. He was beyond mad at Sherlock for leaving him alone in the world. He had just jumped, leaving John to pick up the pieces of his broken heart, leaving him alone in Baker Street to spend out the rest of his meaningless existence in isolation. How dare he. That was him, Sherlock Holmes, the selfish bastard. Only thinking about himself, never thinking about anyone else, least of all John. Of course he’d do something like this, the only person of any consequence to that man was himself and John was a fool to have ever thought otherwise. He clenched his fists in anger as he stood staring at the gravestone.

“How could you do this to me Sherlock. To us?” He hissed at the stone, as if somehow the man beneath could hear every word that was spoken. “I thought you cared.” He let out a short laugh. Sherlock Holmes, caring about someone? As if. He didn’t give a crap about John, if he had truly cared he wouldn’t have jumped. John was right there in front of him and it didn’t stop him. Even after talking to him, hearing his voice and seeing his face far below, he still jumped. Now that just about summed up what Sherlock Holmes was like. Heartless and uncaring. 

“Fuck you Sherlock.” John spat out between clenched teeth, turning away in scorn and throwing away the flowers he’d brought with him. That man didn’t deserve anything from him.

The fourth time John came to the grave was a few months later. He’d calmed down considerably after a long talk with Molly. This time he’d brought a few of Sherlock’s chemistry tubes with some flowers in, something he felt Sherlock would appreciate far more than plain flowers. He placed them in front of the gravestone and shifted uncomfortably.

“Look I don’t know if you can hear me but... I’m sorry for what I said the last time I was here. I didn’t mean any of it. I was angry at you for leaving me but I understand now. Sort of. Anyway, I’m not angry and I’m sorry for yelling. Yeah.” John said softly, keeping his eyes fixed on the stone as though they were Sherlock’s own blue eyes. 

John had spent a long time thinking about what had happened that day and he’d reached a point where he wasn’t angry. He didn’t exactly feel sad either. He just felt numb inside. He felt a deep emptiness in his soul that would never again be filled the way Sherlock filled it with his arrogant smile and surprisingly gentle touch. He’d accepted what had happened and resigned himself to a sad and lonely life. The thought wasn’t appealing and he didn’t in any way feel better like his therapist promised he would. But there was nothing he could do, and crying and screaming and yelling would do nothing to change it. 

He felt a bit uncomfortable at the grave now, he felt he’d done what he came to do. He’d apologised to thin air in the desperate hope that deep beneath the ground Sherlock had heard and forgiven him. So with one last brush against the still fresh headstone, and a lingering glance, he left to resume his normal, isolated life.

On the fifth visit John Watson was silent. He said no words to the gravestone, he made no remarks that he hoped Sherlock heard. He just stood there wordlessly staring at the grave before him. It had been almost a year since the grave had been dug and although time had healed the hole in the ground and covered it with fresh new grass, it had done nothing to heal the wound in John’s heart. It was still as gaping as ever and yet he felt no pain. Not any more. There was a sense of clarity in his mind and at last he could appreciate some of the joys in the world around him. He’d never before noticed how beautiful the cemetery was, it wasn’t a bad place to spend the rest of eternity when he thought about it. Death wasn’t so bad when you were surrounded by beauty and with someone you loved.

John sighed deeply, the only sound he’d made during the entirety of his visit. He slowly stepped towards the headstone and laid a soft, lingering kiss onto the cold stone. Then he walked away, thus ending his last visit to the final resting place of the great Sherlock Holmes. 

***  
Mrs Hudson visited Sherlock’s grave just 3 times. She struggled to visit any more. The first time was at the funeral where she wept and wept until her eyes were dry and red. The second time was with John, where her anger at his actions couldn’t help but seep out in the words she spoke. The third time she visited she was completely alone, left staring at the two graves before her, weeping at the loss of not one, but two beautiful souls.


End file.
